A/N: WARNING: Mentions of Physical Abuse and Alcoholism.
Chapter 8: Haunting Memories
'Dionaea muscipula, more commonly known as the Venus Flytrap, is one of the most well-known carnivorous plants found in the subtropical wetlands located on the East Coast of the United States. It uses its jaw-like trapping structure to catch its prey, which consists of mostly arachnids and insects…'
The little boy stared down at the large Botany encyclopedia with wonder-filled eyes. He took in all the information with excitement, as he stored it into his slowly forming mind palace. He was sitting cross legged on a maroon, leather armchair with the thick book placed on his lap. The private study was his favorite place to be, having the large book cases tower over him, begging him to explore the many wonders that lay on their shelves.
There was a loud, distant door slam that made the little boy jump out of his seat, the book crashing to the floor in the process.
"Sherlock!" A booming, drunken voice echoed through the mansion. There was a crashing sound that came from right outside the study, as if something glass was thrown at a wall and it shattered to the hardwood floor.
Sherlock was frozen with fear. He wanted to run away, hide, jump out of his own skin, anything, but all he could do was stand completely still. The book lay completely forgotten at his little feet.
The large oak door opened, banging against the rubber door stopper connected to the wall. A tall, dark haired man walked into the room, a bottle of alcohol in his right hand. He turned to the small boy, glaring at him with his ice cold eyes. "Why are you in my study?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but nothing came out, his body trembling under his father's gaze.
"Answer me when I am speaking to you, you little shit!" He moved closer, almost in hitting distance of the boy.
"I-I was reading, father," he spoke softly but loud enough for his father to hear him.
The father looked down at the book that was on the floor, reading the title, Botany: The Study of Plant Identification. A scowl crossed the man's face as he gripped tighter onto the glass bottle, making his knuckles turn white. He brought his grey-eyed gaze back up to his son and stepped closer to him. "You think you can just waltz your little five year old ass in here anytime you want and just steal my books!" He spat, hard liquor ever present on his breath. Sherlock flinched and looked away, trying to hide the tears that were forming in his eyes. "Look at me when I am talking, you little freak!" The man slapped his son's cheek, making him fall hard against the ground.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Sherlock cried out in pain, the tears streaming freely down his face now. He tried to stand back up, but his father just kicked him in the stomach making him fall back to the ground.
The father placed the bottle on the floor and started to undo his belt buckle. "Mycroft!" He yelled out as he pulled the black leather through the belt loops on his pants and started to wrap the part without the metal around his right hand.
Footsteps came closer, and then a twelve year old boy with reddish-brown hair walked into the room. "Yes, father?" He spoke, and then gasped as he saw his father basically rip the balling little boy's shirt off his back.
"Close the door behind you. I want you to see what happens to little boys when they disobey their father."
"But, father…"Mycroft said, worryingly, stepping closer to the two. His little, trembling brother stared at him with pleading eyes that made his heart break.
"SHUT UP! Stay exactly where you are and watch!" Mycroft made no further attempts to move. He shifted his attention back to his son that was lying on his stomach at his feet. "I am going to make you wish that you were never born!"
Sherlock woke up with a start, his heart racing and beating out of his chest. He tried to take in a breath but there was something down his throat, preventing him from doing so. He started to panic, not knowing where he was or what was going on. He tried to look around, but when he moved his head, a sharp and excruciating pain shot through his neck and down his spine, making him want to scream out and gasp at the same time. With a lot of effort and muscles soreness, Sherlock lifted his weak hands toward his face and tried to pull out what he did not know at the time was a ventilator.
In the middle of his act of pulling the tube out, someone came up and pushed his hands away. He tried to fight them off as best as he could, but he was too weak and the person was easily able to place his arms back against what felt like a bed. People were speaking to him, but he could not make out any of the words. All he could hear was his own heartbeat blaring in his ears.
He wanted to yell out for help, but he could not. All that came out was a muffled, breathy noise. All the faces surrounding him were blurred and unfamiliar, white surrounding their heads, like a blank void. Sherlock tried to struggle out of their grasp.
Suddenly, something as cold as ice ran through his veins and compressed against his chest. He grew very tired and gave up on trying to fight. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the drowsiness overcame him, until all he could do was just lay there as the faces slowly disappeared, and the white void turned to darkness.
xXx
John's head jerked forward off his hand where it was resting, waking him up. He slowly opened his heavy, tired eyes, revealing the golden light that was now beginning to shine through the hospital's glass doors. He squinted as he looked down at his phone, checking the time. It read 5:32 a.m.
John groaned; it had only been a little more than an hour since the last time he woke up from his restless, nightmare filled sleep. He tried to push himself up into a straight sitting position in the very uncomfortable waiting room chair that he had been shifting in all night.
Greg was with him for a few of those hours, until he was called away to a crime scene very late last night. He did not want to leave John, for fear of what might happen if he were to be left alone. John repeatedly told him that he was fine and that he was a grown man and could manage by himself. Plus, he rather be alone anyway.
John's stomach growled at him for the lack of nourishment that it was receiving since yesterday, minus the tea and toast he had for breakfast the morning before. Greg tried to get him to eat or, at least, drink something from the cafeteria, but he refused and explained that he was not hungry; which, of course, was a lie. But, John knew that if he tried to eat anything, it would most likely come back up as soon as it reached the bottom of his nauseated stomach.
The last time John remembered not having anything to eat for this long was when he was in Afghanistan. He would have no time to eat, since he had back to back surgeries almost every day as he tried to keep the seriously injured soldiers alive, so they could return home to their families and friends.
Those were some of his hardest times he had to face. He watched as brave men and women, many of them being his close acquaintances, got caught in crossfire or were blown up by a bomb or a mine, their bodies becoming bloodied and mutilated. John tried to save as many as he could, as he amputated limbs, removed big pieces of shrapnel, sewed up large wounds, and stopped internal bleeding and infections from spreading. But he could not save all of them. Some of them had died on his operating table or they died while they were being transported. John had seen the life slip from their pain filled eyes, and listened as they took their last, rasping breath. These experiences taught him that he could not save everyone, that he could not play God. It had made him numb, and he experienced a lot of restless nights, where the images would never leave him. John would continue to tell himself that he tried, and later on, he had to accept it.
This was different though. This time, John knew he could have prevented Sherlock from trying to take his life; and just thinking about it made guilt burn through him again, like a raging fire that will never stop growing as it eats everything in its path. The flashbacks of war were replaced with horrid images of his best friend hanging from the ceiling of their flat; his head bowing slightly with greyish-blue eyes staring off into the distance, the light slowly escaping from them. His long, slim body swung, as his limbs uncontrollably twitched from his muscles that were not receiving the oxygen that they needed.
John rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, as if it were going to help push the images out of his mind. It was a hopeless cause, though; he knew they were going to be forever imprinted in his hippocampus.
John let his hands drop back down into his lap, as he took in a deep breath to try and calm himself. Of course it was not very helpful, but it was the only thing he could think of doing besides punching a wall and screaming at the top of his lungs. He knew that everyone else in the room would probably not appreciate him doing that, though, especially this early in the morning. Plus, he was so exhausted and drained that he would not even be able to get up out of his chair, let alone have enough strength to punch a wall.
So John just sat there, haunting memories, old and new, visiting him against his will.
After a few minutes longer of sitting, John's stiff body, especially his legs, began to scream at him to get up and stretch. He really did not want to because of how light headed he was, but he sighed and slowly got up anyway.
John's head was spinning, causing him to place a hand against a wall so he would not collapse. He stood like that for a few seconds with his eyes closed, breathing in and out of his nose slowly. A few people that were near him in the waiting room came up and asked if he was alright, but he just brushed them off and whispered he that he was fine.
After a while, John decided he really needed some water, so he opened his eyes and slowly limped his way over to the water dispenser. He grabbed one of the small paper cups and pushed the button for the water to come out. John gulped down the cold water, feeling it slowly drain down his dry throat.
As John went to pour his third cup, the hospital doors that led to the private rooms opened. John turned his head toward the sudden motion. A nurse walked through the door, and John recognized her as the one that brought her to Sherlock the day before. He quickly dropped the cup in the waste bin and walked over to her, ignoring the shooting pain in his leg.
"Good morning, Doctor." She gave him a genuine smile, that John was hoping meant there was going to be some good news about his best friend. She looked him over and noticed that he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. "Have you been here all night?" She asked, sounding concerned.
"How is he?" John asked, anxiously, ignoring her question all together.
"Sherlock just woke up about forty five minutes ago. He was in a bit of a panic, but that is normal for a man in his… situation." This statement made John's heart sink to the pit of his empty stomach. Seeing John's worried face, the nurse quickly continued. "We gave him a mild sedative, so he is stable now. Sedatives do not last very long for adults, so he should be awake by now, if you would like to go see him."
John nodded. "Yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you."
The nurse nodded and stepped back through the double doors; John followed.
They walked through the hallway, passing many closed doors. John ignored the sounds of pain and sadness surrounding him, as he was focused on one thing; the most important person to him right now.
They turned a corner and approached the doorway to Sherlock's private room.
Seeing the door, John stopped cold in the middle of the hallway. A few thoughts struck him, making him panic slightly. Oh God… What is Sherlock going to say when he sees me? What am I going to tell him? I do not know if I can look into his eyes, his cold, grey eyes that I saw life slip from, without having another mental break down. It was only yesterday that I held his almost lifeless body in my arms, staring down at him as I begged for God to keep him alive while we waited for an ambulance to arrive.
Hearing no footsteps behind her, the nurse turned back and stopped walking after she noticed John was not following any more. See looked worryingly at him and asked, "Are you okay, Doctor Watson?"
John immediately snapped out of the trance he was in, as he let out a shaky breath and cleared his throat. "Y-Yeah, I am fine; just fine."
The nurse did not believe him, but knew it was not her place to pry into his personal business. So, she nodded and continued walking, John hesitantly following once more.
They finally reached their destination. The nurse knocked softly three times on the door, turned the knob, and slowly opened it. John entered after her.
John's breath caught in his throat as his eyes stopped to the man on the bed. Sherlock was awake; alive. The feeling of both joy and sadness filled his chest.
His friend's eyes where focused on the nurse in front of him, not noticing John had not come in with her. He looked like he just woke up from an eternal sleep, yet his eyes were still alert and cold; the norm for Sherlock.
"Sherlock, your fiancé is here to see you." She smiled at him. John let out an internal sigh; of course the paramedic told everyone that he was Sherlock's fiancé. Gossip must pass around very quickly in this hospital.
Sherlock looked puzzled and lost from what the nurse said. He then turned his attention to John. John gave him the same stern look that he always did when he wanted to tell Sherlock not to ask and that he would explain later. But instead of a nod of understanding, Sherlock just continued to stare at him, unblinking, as if he was trying to deduce who the person was in front of him.
The nurse went to work on checking Sherlock's monitors. John, not looking directly at Sherlock, just continued to stand in the same spot as his best friend looked him over.
The nurse pressed a button to put Sherlock's bed in a position to where he is sitting up slightly. Sherlock's gaze broke from John when the nurse slowly started to fix the gauze that covered his neck, making him jerk away from her.
"It is okay, Sherlock." She said soothingly. "I am only trying to change out your bandages." She slowly moved her hands back to his neck, but Sherlock still shifted away from her as much as possible.
As the struggle continued, John went over to the sink, washed his hands, and put on a pair of latex gloves. "Here," he said as he moved to the nurse's side, "let me do it." After objecting a little bit, the nurse finally complied and moved out of the way.
John leaned forward and grabbed the corner of one of the gauze, beginning to remove it. Sherlock flinched, but this time, he did not move away from the touch. John removed it slowly, making sure that it did not grab any skin or scabs. When the first one was fully taken off, it revealed torn up, raw skin that was starting to inflame. John closed his eyes for a moment and drew in a deep breath, trying to keep himself as calm as possible.
He opened his eyes and continued to remove the rest of the gauze on the front and sides of his long neck. During the whole time John was doing this, Sherlock did not glance at him once. He just continued to stare at the wall in front of him.
When John was done redressing the front, John spoke softly, but loud enough for both the nurse and his flat mate to hear. "Sherlock, I am going to redress the bandages in the back, now. I need you to lean forward slightly, and the nurse will help you. Please do not fight her."
There was no reply from Sherlock. But, luckily, when the nurse placed an arm across Sherlock's chest and the other hand held his head, leaning him forward, he did not fight her.
When John was finished, he placed his right hand behind Sherlock's head, and together, he and the nurse slowly lowered Sherlock back against the bed.
For the first time since he got in the room, John came face to face with Sherlock and looked directly into his eyes. His irises were grey with flecks of blue, like a cold, winter storm; full of life and wonder, as if he just looked upon the world for the first time. They were the most beautiful things that John had seen in such a long time. Even just for a moment, they made all his worries and sorrows melt away.
The nurse cleared her throat, bringing John's attention back to reality. He looked up to see the nurse standing near the door with a clipboard, smiling. "A doctor will be with you shortly." She said as she hung the clipboard from the nail on the wall. John mouthed thank you, and she just nodded, slowly closing the door behind her, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the cold hospital room.
A/N: Oh God… I have not updated in such a long time… I hope you guys are still with me. I know John's questions have not been answered yet (and that probably frustrates you all), but they will be in the next chapter. I promise! I will be adding a little twist to the story, that I hope you all will like. Hopefully by the time summer hits (not too long from now), I will have a lot more time to update. You all are so loyal, and I applaud you for that because I know it is not easy to wait patiently. Just please bear with me.
I always love seeing everyone's thoughts and opinions in the reviews. They are all so inspiring and helpful. A big thanks goes out to Nat who has been with me since the very beginning and has never given up on me. Your reviews always lighten up my day and keep me motivated to keep writing.
Thank you all again!
